radio silence
by the hikikomori life
Summary: Watanuki is a hard-up druggie who lives for his next high; Doumeki is a DJ. Also, let's pretend I know anything about raves. I may never finish this, but then again that's normal. Written for nebulia's xxxholic mini-bang challenge.


**Radio Silence.**

Watanuki's apartment was neither comfortable nor spacious; in fact, if one were so inclined, one could make the argument that even referring to it as an "apartment" was charitable, seeing as it was little more than the dingy, residential second floor of a small shophouse which had been converted into a diner. Lending an appearance of legitimacy to his flat was the fact that it was not necessary to enter through the shop itself as one might expect, but one could instead climb a rickety metal staircase up from the alleyway behind the building. This, while affording Watanuki some measure of privacy, also meant that he began each day by weathering the various odious smells emanating from the dumpsters lining what served as his porch.

He had come to inhabit the place in a natural fashion - almost as a matter of course. Due to the miserly nature of his employers it had been difficult negotiating a decent amount of compensation for his troubles, and it was only after convincing them that even a good-for-nothing like him needed a place to sleep at night that they grudgingly offered room and board as part of the bargain. Watanuki worked mornings, afternoons, and weekday evenings, cooking, cleaning, bussing tables and otherwise doing massive amounts of hard labour for which he was severely under-compensated. But he kept the job because he needed the money, he at least got weekend nights off, and so far nobody downstairs had complained about the stench or the smoke. For all the little flat's faults - for example, the strange, dank, wet-hair smell that permeated the unlit corridor leading to his room, or the unsightly discoloured blotches on the walls - it kept him and his stuff dry, and so for all intents and purposes, it was home.

However, at the present moment, none of these considerations made the slightest impression on Watanuki's mind. He lay prone on his back, leaving a silhouette of himself imprinted in the thick dust which coated the floor like a carpet, and imagined himself soaring above endless clouds. This endeavour was made both significantly easier and more intense by the spliff he had just smoked. Also, how had he managed to go so long without ever noticing how fascinating the slats on the underside of his bed were? There were ten of them, or thirteen? Nearly thirteen. Or maybe it was five? Counting unassisted was inconceivable, so he held up his hand to his face, and was pleased to discover that he still held the joint between finger and thumb. He took another toke to celebrate, and felt inordinately pleased with himself.

Then, as though echoing from the bottom of a well, an insistent, electronic beeping penetrated the haze that shrouded his thoughts.

"Shit," breathed Watanuki, and sat up, or stupidly attempted to. His head made a hollow noise as it connected with the wooden bedframe, which hurt like a bitch but at least had the benefit of bringing him partially back to his senses. The subsequent flailing and agonized cursing, however, upset the overturned cardboard box which acted as his bedside table, and sent his cellphone skittering merrily across the floor. Feeling half-concussed,, he grumbled to himself as he fetched his phone, and flipped open its clam-shell, passing an eye first over the text message which sanctimoniously informed him that he was late, and then the tiny digital clock at the corner of the display, only to discover that he _was_, in fact, terribly late, and had best leave the house immediately or risk some very dire consequences indeed.

He marched to the single window decorating the far wall, and with his free hand wrenched away the limp dish-towel which normally served as a curtain to keep sunlight out of his humble abode. It was growing darker by turns, but there was still a reasonable amount of daylight remaining, time which would allow him to reach the rendezvous point if he ran at a lively pace. It was a good thing he had already cooked for the occasion, he reflected, beginning to feel vaguely contrite as he packed an assortment of small plastic lunchboxes decorated with poorly-drawn cartoon characters. It nearly slipped his mind to put on a shirt before he walked out the door; he eventually located one in a pile of unironed clothes at the foot of his bed, and pulled it over his head, wrinkling his nose at the slightly stale smell of perspiration and smoke. It hung loosely on his frame, clinging to bony shoulders as though for dear life. For all the cooking that he did for others, it seemed that Watanuki failed to properly feed himself, retaining a lanky, somewhat scrawny figure which held more than a suggestion of malnutrition.

The park that was his ultimate destination was but a quick ten-minute jog away, and Watanuki slowed only as he came up to the bench where she waited, hands neatly folded in her lap. He was breathing rather more heavily than one might expect of a young man who had just undergone some light physical exertion, but there was little doubt that the smoking, snorting, injection and ingestion of various illicit substances had taken a toll on his general health; the only question was whether that was enough to discourage his drug habit, and presumably the answer was no. Upon seeing him her face lit up, and she said to him sternly, but with a twinkle in her eye,

"You're late."

"Hello," said Watanuki, panting heavily still, leaning forward with hands on knees to smile at her apologetically, while she looked upon him with the air of an indulgent aunt or grandmother. "I am, I'm sorry. I lost track of time."

"Oh, I understand. Don't worry about it, dear." She had spied the bundle in his hands, and made a tutting noise, but seemed nonetheless pleased. "You brought dinner?"

"For both of us," he said, and took a seat next to her on the bench. Like a chef unveiling his masterpieces he uncovered the worn cartoon-print lunchboxes and presented them to her; grateful, she accepted them, and presently they began to eat, Watanuki self-consciously allowing himself but a morsel of everything, picking at his own food. There was of course steamed rice, that staple of the people; shredded chicken drizzled in a tasty spicy sauce of his own invention; some bedraggled-looking but still-delicious greens and even a few slices of fresh fruit. Not the most elaborate presentation, but considering Watanuki's painfully limited means it was akin to a feast. Watanuki had been somewhat liberal in interpreting his contract of "room and board" with his sometimes-adversaries downstairs, and often helped himself to the contents of ther diner's pantry when the mood so took him - skimming a head of lettuce, a cup of rice here and there, not nearly enough to be caught, and barely enough to keep himself going.

"Did you have a good day?" she asked him kindly, stirring leftover sauce into her rice with a pair of disposable chopsticks, which looked as though they had been swiped from a Chinese take-away.

"Good enough. I was resting before I came; those slave-drivers are working me to the bone, they had me mopping the floor until past midnight." He let out an exaggerated sigh, mostly for her benefit, and added, "I really don't see why - it's not like it gets any cleaner."

She tutted again, then, clicking her tongue between crooked teeth. The late-afternoon sun bestowed her weathered face with an unearthly glow, and out of the corner of his eye Watanuki admired the subtle play of golden light across her lined features, the glint of a stray white hair which had escaped the neat bun at the base of her neck. He knew, with unusual self-awareness, that next to her he would appear pale and jaundiced, a recluse who never left the safety of darkness and likely suffered from a severe vitamin D deficiency. But since a lack of vitamin D was probably the least of his problems, he felt not the slightest trapping of shame at his sickly appearance, nor even a remote interest in altering his way of life. The events of his past had fundamentally changed him, and concerns such as health and happiness had become mere bargaining chips in the bid to chase his next high. Watanuki lived to escape, and escaped so that he might continue to live; there was no higher priority than the temporary dissociation of the self from the existence to which he was chained.

They conversed, in light tones, about this and that, and gazed out upon the lake that was bordered by a thin dirt path which threaded through tufts of wrinkled grass and weeds to reach their vantage point. The air was cool, and suffused with the sharp tang of the oncoming winter. When at last their meal was done, the sun had already begun to sink behind distant apartment blocks, cloud colours fading from cottony pink and orange to a deep twilight blue. Conscientiously, she assisted him in clearing away the empty dishes, but did so with surprising efficiency. Like friends they had come together to talk and eat, but now that it was time to get down to business, they set aside the pleasantries to deal with more pressing matters.

"The usual tonight?"

He nodded. He had been buying from her almost exclusively for a while now, long enough that he trusted her to deliver, and she trusted him to pay.

"You're a good boy, you know. I always save the good stuff for you." From deep inside her worn tweed jacket she produced several clear zip-lock bags, filled separately with pearly white powder, a great number of candy-coloured pills, and what appeared to be an assortment of dried leaves and buds. Watanuki took these from her, slipping them inside the empty lunch-boxes, and then, with exaggerated care, drew a thin bundle of worn bills from his jeans pocket.

"How much?"

She smiled, touching a finger to her lips, as though they were the sole proprietors of a shared secret, and winked. "A special discount for you today. For being such a good cook."

He peeled off a number of bills until she held out her hand to tell him to stop, and then pressed a few of the precious things into her open palm. As much as Watanuki disliked charity, he knew better than to question an outright gift. The way things were he could barely stretch his pitiful allowance to the end of each month, and though he spared no expense in preparing meals for others, he seemed to balk at stealing for himself. In the end he often resorted to visiting the soup kitchen downtown simply to fill his stomach with something warm. Apart from the cravings, it was hunger that drove the beast called Watanuki, much like the other waifs and wastrels that were his friends and compatriots. They drifted through life from day to day, finding food where they could and toking up whenever they couldn't; any other mode of existence was unknown to them.

So it was that Watanuki returned to his flat later that night, with light heart and lighter wallet, and lay on the floor under a sheet of dust, contemplating momentarily the wisdom of mixing drugs in a brief period of time. Whatever apprehension he might have felt, however, soon passed; a sense of proportion and reality began to return to Watanuki, the circumstances of his life and who he was, and he responded in the only way he knew how. In that position, back bent awkwardly into a half-moon, he turned his face to the ceiling like a supplicant, and partook generously of his newly-received goods, numbing himself to the world.

* * *

Doumeki Shizuka had lived in this city long enough that he felt a vague, misguided sense of attachment to the place. It was home inasmuch as a city could be home to anyone - he had carved out a niche for himself in its warm, wet heart, and it was there, entombed in unfeeling concrete, that he eked out a passable existence. He stayed in a modest, moderately-furnished apartment on the fourth floor of an aging apartment block, and paid the rent each month with money earned playing gigs at clubs. The building had been constructed quite some time prior to his arrival, but was nonetheless well-maintained, and by some stroke of good fortune he had obtained a unit which had extruding from its side a small balcony, barely a meter in width. It was there that Doumeki stood, palms flat on the railing in front of him, overlooking the chaos of the intersection below. At times like these, he could truly appreciate what little in life he had been gifted with. To be raised above the turmoil of the streets, elevated above struggling to survive from day to day - it was not much, but he couldn't ask for more.

Perfectly timed to rudely dissipate the warm sense of gratitude that had descended upon Doumeki, his cell phone began to buzz insistently against his outer thigh. For a moment he contemplated failing to answer, but that he would see the caller later was a certainty, and not picking up now would be like asking for punishment. Holding his cell at a safe distance from his ear (something he'd learned to do from experience), he gingerly tapped the 'answer' button and waited for the inevitable aural assault.

"_YOU!_" She never disappointed. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Doumeki waited until he was sure she wasn't about to scream again, and then checked his wristwatch.

"It's seven-thirty," he said, attempting to project his voice across the gap from his mouth to the phone held at arm's length.

"Oh, so it turns out you _do_ know how to read the time!" Doumeki marvelled privately at how much sarcasm she could pack into a single sentence; disdain dripped from her every syllable. "And when, exactly, were you supposed to be here?"

Doumeki sighed, audibly,

"Seven is too early for me to set up," he pointed out, in an apparent bid to commit verbal suicide.

"What was that? I must be mistaken, I thought I heard you say seven is too _early_! Well, now you're _late_! If I don't see your ass down here within half an hour, so help me God but I will smash every piece of hardware you own with my bare hands!"

"Don't do that," said Doumeki, somewhat reproachfully.

"I _will_," she affirmed, her tone brooking no argument. "I'll see you at eight."

She hung up. Even the dial tone in his ear sounded ironic, now, and he pulled the phone away from his ear irritably, replacing it in his pocket. So much for being removed from life on the streets; it was now time for him to plunge carelessly into their depths. He seized his jacket from where it lay draped across the couch, and descended the several flights of stairs to the wet streets below, making haste for the club. Within a respectable twenty minutes he had reached his destination, and found, as he had expected, that it was mostly empty. A team of stagehands swarmed over the turntables like ants, tweaking knobs and performing sound-tests in a blur of activity. With a vague sense of disquiet he approached the DJ's stand, and found his unease to be entirely warranted as he was struck violently from behind with an umbrella swung like a home-run bat.

"Ow," he deadpanned, and turned to face his assailant, refusing to give her the satisfaction of knowing that actually, his head really hurt. There she stood, lit by a lazily swivelling spotlight, a slender girl with her long hair drawn up into two elaborate tails, dyed a fluorescent blue and falling in ringlets, nearly obscuring the massive headphones draped around her neck. Even after all the yelling and exertion her make-up remained immaculate, as though she had been born with perfect porcelain-doll lips and wearing a pound of foundation. At her side was her timid shadow, a thin, sweet-faced girl with straight black hair who was quite inappropriately dressed for a club in a plain hooded jacket and an overly-modest skirt which fell below the knees.

"So you finally decided to show up! Do you know how long we've been waiting?"

"Hello, Sasha. Hello, Ame," said Doumeki, resignedly. The girl addresed as Ame scoffed at his tone of voice, and shifted her umbrella from hand to hand in a vaguely threatening manner, the way a mobster might hold a crowbar.

"Don't make me hit you again."

Apparently unfazed by all the threats of physical violence whizzing past, the other girl smiled shyly at Doumeki, attempting to attract his attention.

"I think they are almost ready for your sound-checks," she said, her gentle voice barely audible over the general hubbub of preparation. As he passed them, heading for the turntables with stagehands moving obediently out of the way like the parting of the red sea, he felt a sharp jab of pain in his right thigh and stumbled gracelessly; it seemed Ame could not resist a parting shot with the umbrella.

"Don't DJ on an empty stomach!" she snapped at his unresponsive back. (Doumeki felt that this was rather rich coming from someone who had made him leave the house in such a hurry that he nearly forgot his keys, but he preferred to keep the function of both his legs rather than open his mouth one more time.)

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" asked Watanuki, sounding doubtful.

"Naturally," trilled Fai. He seemed perfectly happy, but then again that was only natural, seeing as he'd taken the first hit. They were squatting together on the grimy linoleum floor of the men's room, squashed into a stall that was meant for one person, not two plus their assorted drug paraphernalia. Fai's shoulders were hunched and there were dark shadows under his eyes, wrinkles on his brow; think of them as a line for every year on hard drugs. He fiddled needlessly with the lighter which he was using to heat a scrap of aluminium foil stretched out on a makeshift stand between them, and upon which sat a lump of cream-white powder. Thin curlicues of smoke issued from it as it vaporized, filling the air with a cloying stench. Watanuki, for the moment still sober, was faltering as he usually did before a big drug binge, whatever was left of his conscience or common sense still meekly trying to assert itself. But Fai only had to turn to him and grin, smoke billowing out of his mouth like a sleeping dragon, and Watanuki relented, breathing it all in until his head spun. The music playing outside the smoky men's room could still be heard booming through the walls with every bass hit. DJ Ame was opening tonight with a special guest, the semi-famous singer-cum-idol Sasha. They had run into each other earlier, and suffice it to say it had been a painfully awkward event, due to the fact that she had been head-over-heels in love with Watanuki for as long as he had known her.

"Is that your friend?" Fai had asked, afterwards, with a suggestive nudge that Watanuki did _not_ appreciate.

"Something like that," said Watanuki, wearily. (Nice girl though she was, talking to Sasha tended to remind him how he had thrown his life away, and that in turn usually left him in a foul mood.) For a while he studied the bartop, considering the notion of being really drunk and really high at the same time. It sounded like an interesting experiment, but then he realised he didn't have any money with which to buy drinks, and simply sighed to himself.

"You sly dog. She seems to like you, why don't you give her what she wants?"

"She's a nice girl," said Watanuki, as though this explained everything. "And, well - look at me." He swept a hand over himself with a slight sneer, taking in with a single gesture the pale flesh, skin stretched tight over bones and an otherwise general gauntness of features which would normally suggest someone who, if not dead, was at least dying fairly quickly. "I'm -"

"I know, I know," said Fai interrupted with a wry smile, sympathizing as only a fellow addict could. "Look, don't dwell on it. I've got something that will make you feel better." And then, with a firm hand, he steered Watanuki towards the men's room in the back of the club, which was how they had ended up there, getting high out of their minds. Fortunately, by this point, a meth-induced euphoria had blunted the sting of being a useless good-for-nothing, and Watanuki had all but forgotten the incident, distracted by the wispy trails of smoke which snaked towards the ceiling. Had he been in the right frame of mind, he would have reflected on how it was much easier to get stoned and live in the moment, than to abstain and remember life as it was before.

They both started as someone began pounding on the door of the stall, and Watanuki groaned.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Are you guys smoking without me?" said a familiar voice. Watanuki could see his dirty tennis shoes through the gap between the door and the floor. (You knew you were spending way too much time on the floor when you could recognize a person by their shoes.)

Wobbling slightly on his feet as he did so, Fai got up and unlocked the door to let Syaoran in. Squeezing a third person into the stall, however, proved to be an impossible endeavour, and they resorted to leaving the stall door open to allow Syaoran to sit with them, half inside and half outside. Despite a daily diet which seemed to consist of mainly Pepsi and ecstasy, Syaoran was to all appearances still a healthy, robust young man, possibly due to the fact that he actually lived a normal life outside of the club scene. On the weekends he dipped his toes into the cesspool that was Watanuki's world, but during the week he went to classes and worked out; he didn't live in hell, merely visiting from time to time, and on those occasions found the burning sensation 'stimulating'.

"You probably don't want any," said Fai, with a sly grin, his eyes slightly unfocused. "Ashura gave me this stuff, it's pure ice."

"Oh," said Syaoran, glancing apprehensively in Watanuki's direction. "Will - will he be okay?"

"I don't see why not," was Fai's lazy reply.

It was a while before Syaoran finally convinced Watanuki to leave the restroom with him, and by that time DJ Ame had already vacated the stand to make way for the night's main act, one young and upcoming DJ Doumeki. They erupted from the men's room in a cloud of smoke, and were swallowed immediately by a writhing mass of bodies, carried along haplessly by a thumping bassline, like foam on the crest of a wave. Being crushed on all sides by a dancing, heaving crowd felt just like floating on air when one was as intoxicated as Watanuki, and the pulsing, seizure-inducing strobe lights became nothing more than pleasant ambience. Syaoran, although he made a valiant attempt to look out for his friend, had surreptitiously helped himself to Watanuki's stash of E while in the restroom and was not in the best of states himself.

As the mob surged around them tirelessly, Watanuki groaned, and seized Syaoran's shoulder to steady himself, nearly dragging the other boy down with him. He was becoming gradually aware of a strange warmth flooding his extremities, his toes, fingers and... certain other body parts, which he belatedly recognized as arousal. He'd heard the stories about crystal meth, but all warnings he'd received had slipped his mind until it was far, far too late. And now he was realising, with an unfortunate clarity, that he really, desperately needed to get off.

"What's wrong?" yelled Syaoran, over the music, stumbling back and forth with the tide of the crowd. Watanuki ignored him, scanning the crowd with a keen eye, searching for a worthy target. (Even high, he felt there was something decidedly wrong about going for his young friend. He just - they just - well, Syaoran was like a brother to him, so - no, just no.) There was that girl, short skirt and sizeable up top - but no, she looked like she had coke up her nose, he didn't want a coke junkie. Maybe that boy, thin, lots of piercings, dark eyes - but he already had his hands full, thought Watanuki, with a pang of heightened arousal, watching fingernails painted with black nail-polish trace the stubble-darkened curve of another man's jaw. And then, as the horde of people surrounding them reached fever pitch, the music building to a glorious epiphany of electronic noise - that's when he spotted the DJ, hunched over the turntables, eyes narrowed, working the mixer with an unusual intensity of focus. He looked rather buff and had a strong jaw, and for a moment Watanuki was hit with the strong image of him without jacket or jeans - or anything at all - which shot a spike of warmth straight to his groin. That sealed the deal, and, with a sudden purposefulness, he began to navigate through the seething throng, stumbling as dancers bumped into him, but never losing sight of his goal.

* * *

This was what Doumeki lived for: punchy bass kicks shaking the walls of the club, arps ripping up the melody, and the frenzied, thrashing crowd. He wasn't much of a party person himself, but he did derive some small enjoyment from knowing that, without him, there _was_ no party. It wasn't really an ego thing, though; when you broke it down, it was really all about the music. Doumeki's style ranged from house to rave to hard acid, but he felt that he could appreciate pretty much everything, even the ridiculously ugly breakdowns of drum & bass. As long as it was made by someone who really cared about what he was doing, and wasn't just churning out beats for money or recognition. It sounded corny even in his own head, but it was true. He glanced up from the turntables to soak in the glow of the droves of ravers - that indistinct clump of bodies which breathed light and smoke - and was mildly surprised to spot a kid struggling like a moron to clamber on stage, with his friend making a pathetic bid to stop him. A stage assistant was already moving to shoo him away, but Doumeki waved him off distractedly. This looked like it might turn out to be interesting.

It seemed to take a lot of effort for him to drag his skinny body over the barrier, but he eventually managed it, and presented himself to Doumeki, grinning and glassy-eyed. Oh, so he was high. That would explain the lack of coordination which was so severe it made him look borderline retarded. He had a scruffy cowlick and was quite pale, even by a junkie's standards. And he was just thin enough to have a waist, something which Doumeki found disturbingly attractive, and gave himself a hard mental slap for even noticing.

"I wanna do you," announced the druggie, in a perfectly serious voice. All he received was a slight - _very_ slight - eyebrow raise.

"Get off the stage, idiot," said Doumeki flatly. His hands continued moving tirelessly over the mixer; it was as though he could DJ in his sleep.

"No!" cried the druggie, distraught. The rejection seemed to come to him as somewhat of a shock, and he responded by seizing Doumeki by the shoulders, and crushing their mouths together. For a moment Doumeki was stunned to discover a tongue in his mouth, sweet like soda, bitter like smoke. But to be fair that tongue was doing some rather interesting things - sweeping across his front teeth, tickling the ridges of his palate in a most distracting way, and he was just about to wrap an arm around the other boy when he came to his senses and instead abruptly shoved him off, sending him reeling back.

"I'm busy," he said shortly, and struggled for a moment to regain his train of thought, which had been so rudely derailed. Over the druggie's shoulder he shot a death glare at the stage assistant who had begun to approach once more, looking concerned. _Stay out of it,_ thought Doumeki, attempting to telepathically beam his thoughts into the other guy's head. _I can handle this_.

Meanwhile, the boy, who was decidedly baked out of his mind, had elected to make Doumeki's life as difficult as possible, and was grinding determinedly against him in time with the music. Even with a skinny boy dry-humping him, cheeks flushed and mouth open in an attractive little 'o', Doumeki was stoic enough to continue playing the set, but he couldn't control the natural physiological response of his body, and inwardly cursed the rush of blood to his groin. But a job was a job, and he continued to DJ remarkably well despite the fact that a great portion of blood flow in his body had been directed away from his higher thought processes. Not that it was easy, and it wasn't made easier by how the boy occasionally mumbled things like "I'll let you do me on the turntables," in a tone of voice which suggested he thought he was making an irresistible offer. And, thought a small, treacherous part of Doumeki's mind, compared to the sort of propositions he usually received, it wasn't half bad. He'd have to be crazy to accept, but he still found himself toying daringly with the idea of it, staring temptation boldly in the eye.

Finally, frustrated at failing to elicit a response from the poker-faced DJ, the boy dropped to his knees in front of Doumeki, grabbing at his belt-loops to yank his hips forward and making him stumble.

"I'll just blow you now, then," he declared, sliding his hands around to clutch at Doumeki's ass. By this point, Ame had shown up on stage, looking positively livid.

"What's going on here?" she said, murderously. The boy took this opportunity to nuzzle at Doumeki's crotch with his face and emit a moan that made Doumeki's hard-on throb. Doumeki, struggling to fend him off with one hand and work the turntable with the other, caught a passing glimpse of Sasha's tearful face in the crowd, and had a strong, sinking feeling.

"He won't leave off," said Doumeki, of the boy clinging, limpet-like, to his legs. "I think I should send him home."

"Just forget him, you pervert!" snapped Ame. Her expression suggested there couldn't possibly be anything more tedious than dealing with Doumeki and his pathetic inability to defend himself from a methhead. "I can't believe you'd pull this at work, are you retarded?"

"I said I'm only going to send him home. If he keeps on like this he'll hurt himself. Can you get someone to take over? I-" Doumeki put his hand over the boy's face, tilting his head directly backwards to stop him from using his teeth to yank down the zipper on his jeans. "- I need to take care of this." It was easier said than done, but eventually Doumeki managed to maneuver the boy backstage, ignoring Ame's loud complaints about his sheer incompetence. A stagehand was loitering back there, smoking a cigarette; he scarpered quickly at seeing the look on Doumeki's face as he half-carried, half-dragged the boy behind him to stand near a pile of cardboard boxes and some dusty spotlights with the bulbs smashed in. There he held him by the shoulders at arm's length, trying to catch his wandering eye to ensure he was paying attention.

"What's your name?" said Doumeki, clearly enunciating every syllable, as though speaking to a child.

"Watanuki," said the druggie, pleased to finally have some attention paid to him. He threw himself forward, attempting once more to kiss Doumeki, and made a noise of protest as he was held forcibly back.

"Where do you live?"

"Who cares? Let's just do it here," Watanuki begged, squirming insistently. He looked as though he was in some discomfort, and Doumeki tried not to think about how it was probably because his jeans were too tight.

"Where do you live?" repeated Doumeki, resolutely. "You'd better tell me, or- or I won't do you." He felt ridiculous saying it, but it certainly got Watanuki's attention. Unfortunately he seemed to be so far gone that even if he genuinely wished to answer the question, the best he could come up with was,

"I- I stay in a house, it's up some stairs, and, sometimes I work downstairs? That's where I live. Hey, can we-" he bit his lower lip (Doumeki did his damnedest not to stare). "- can we fuck now? Please," he added, unnecessarily.

At this rate Doumeki wouldn't get back in time to finish his set. He resisted the urge to give Watanuki a good, hard shake. At the same time he felt somewhat amused, but only if he distanced himself from the situation and imagined it from the perspective of an uninvolved third party. Having to actually be there and deal with this shitfaced imbecile was rapidly driving him up the wall. Add to that the fact that the same imbecile had also made him so hard it was almost painful, and you could say you had an interesting situation on you rhands. Luckily - for a given definition of 'luck' - that was when Ame showed up backstage, now looking ready to choke a bitch. She stalked up to them, and Doumeki, probably for the first time in his life, felt an alien pang of fear.

"_Now_ what are you doing?"

"Trying to find out where he lives," said Doumeki, as though it was obvious. Ame shot him a glare, opening her mouth to shoot back a retort, but then closed it again, looking with a deep frown at something over Doumeki's shoulder. He followed her gaze and realised that Sasha had decided to join the party. Shy as she was, she had still snuck backstage to find them, likely out of concern for her friend. He glanced at her, and noticed that although they had since dried, there were traces of tear tracks on her cheeks. At that realization, Doumeki had the decency to feel slightly guilty, even though, technically speaking, none of this was his fault.

"E- excuse me," she said in a timid voice, hands fidgeting nervously in oversized sleeves. "Are you - are you going to go with Watanuki? To make sure he gets home safely?"

"I would if he'd tell me where he stays."

Though Doumeki was not the most sensitive of people, he could still see that Sasha was wrestling with some sort of internal dilemma. Then again, it wasn't hard to come to that conclusion; she had never been the sort to conceal her true emotions. At last, her concern for Watanuki winning out over her own reservations, she murmured, crestfallen, "He - he lives in the flat above the diner on Channing. You'll - take care of him, won't you? Doumeki?"

"You'd better keep your hands off him!" added Ame, bristling. After a few moments of wrestling with a reluctant Watanuki to get him moving, Doumeki gave up and simply hefted the druggie over his shoulder, ignoring his complaints. It was a little more difficult to ignore the heat of the skin at Watanuki's waist pressing against the side of his neck from where his shirt rode up from all the struggling, but somehow, with the stoicism of a cow standing in the rain, he bore that too, suppressing any outward sign of titillation for the sake of his audience.

"Don't worry," he said to the both of them as they stared, hoping that it sounded more confident than he felt. "I'll look out for him."

* * *

The cab ride was relatively brief, but not as quick as Doumeki might have wished. Twice he had to slap Watanuki's hands off his own fly to stop him from taking off his pants; it took considerably greater willpower to stop Watanuki from unzipping Doumeki's fly to lean over and give him a blowjob right then and there. He glared at the cabbie, who was watching them dubiously in the rear-view mirror, and snapped, "Just drive, and don't ask any fucking questions." With one last, sceptical glance back, the cabbie turned back to the road, and stepped on the gas. Doumeki looked back himself to discover that Watanuki was in the process of rolling up his shirt to reveal a milky expanse of flat, kissable belly. It was strange, but he felt a lump form suddenly in his throat, and swallowed around it with some difficulty.

"Stop that," he said, and yanked Watanuki's shirt back down with rather more force than was necessary. Unfazed, Watanuki tilted his body towards Doumeki's side, and began rubbing himself urgently against Doumeki's thigh, moaning unreservedly. No matter how good those warm hands felt grabbing at him, Doumeki still thought that this was getting rather ridiculous, and he tried not to make eye contact with the cabbie, who was either terrified or really turned on. Trying to save face, he slapped his hand over Watanuki's open mouth to smother his moans and announced in a loud voice,

"Dammit, why are you so horny? Can't you control yourself?"

Sadly this turned out to be exactly the wrong thing to do, as Watanuki, eyes dark with lust, licked his open palm, tasting salt-sweat. Startled, he drew his hand back, and Watanuki, displaying a surprising presence of mind, held his gaze for a long moment before allowing the tip of his tongue to peek out, wetting his lips. Doumeki stared at the plump, glistening flesh, becoming suddenly aware of the erection, painfully restrained by denim, jammed up against his hip, as well as his own, throbbing lazily with every heartbeat. All of these things gave him pause and he did nothing to stop Watanuki, only stared, desperately clinging onto his last shreds of self-control as fingertips slipped cheekily under the hem of his shirt, feathering up his abdomen, wearing down his resolve. Watanuki continued sliding his hand upward, eventually splaying his fingers out on Doumeki's upper chest. Impudently he thumbed a nipple, once lightly, and then back and forth until the flesh puckered and hardened under his touch, and it was all Doumeki could do to not bite clean through his lip to stop from groaning out loud.

It was at this point that he realised the cab had pulled up by the side of the street and was idling benignly. The cabbie, glancing at them in the rear-view mirror every once in a while, wore a martyred expression. Doumeki wasn't sure whether this plain exhibitionism was more humiliating or arousing. In the end he settled for a confusing mixture of both, and struggled to extract his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans (which had become just _that_ much tighter), tossing a couple of notes into the front seat before bodily dragging an uncooperative Watanuki from the vehicle. Opening the car door let in a rush of fresh, cool air, refreshing him even as he half-walked, half-fell out of the cab, and muting - at least for the moment - his raging libido.

"Are you satisfied now?" said Doumeki, rather harshly, watching the cab drive off at top speed. "Traumatizing the man like that. Now I've got to find another cab to take me back." He punctuated this sentence with an exasperated sigh. "Just go home already."

"You said you'd see me there," said Watanuki, sounding petulant, like a child who wasn't getting his way.

"I just did."

"Walk me to the door, you idiot," replied Watanuki snippily, surprisingly articulate, if only for a moment. He grabbed Doumeki's hand in his and started walking. For a moment, Doumeki considered yanking his arm away, going back to the club, and leaving Watanuki to his own psychotic devices... but he _had _promised those two that he'd look out for the boy; there was still the risk that Watanuki might fall down the stairs and put himself in a coma or do something equally idiotic, and he wasn't throwing himself at Doumeki anymore, surely that was a good sign? Having produced this weak reasoning to justify his decision, he allowed himself to be dragged behind the other boy towards a rather seedy-looking alley across the street. There they picked their way across litter-strewn concrete, half-crushed soda cans and old stained newspapers, coming to a rather shady-looking, rickety old door which had no signs or markings nearby that would give it an address. Doumeki considered, then, the possibility that he was being led into some kind of elaborate trap, the end of which would see him being mugged and left naked and unconscious on the street. Almost as quickly, though, he dismissed the thought; even if it were true, he was reasonably confident that he could take Watanuki down in a fight. Anyway, it probably wasn't true. _Probably_.

But it soon became patently clear that it _had_ been all a ruse, because the moment Doumeki stepped through the door after Watanuki, he found himself slammed up against it, Watanuki's hands fumbling desperately to undo the button at the top of Doumeki's fly. More out of surprise than anything else, and maybe partially because he'd just imagined being robbed, Doumeki threw his arms out, knocking the other boy to the floor. Stunned for but a moment to find himself sitting on the ground, Watanuki made a noise of sheer frustration, and without anyone to stop him, unzipped his own jeans, pulling each flap to the side to fondle himself through his shorts. He glanced up at Doumeki with hooded eyes, tracing the outline of his erection under stretched fabric tentatively with his fingertips, lips parting in a moan. For a few beats, Doumeki simply stared, his throat going dry- and then, no longer able to resist, he lunged forward, dragging Watanuki up to mold their bodies together, lifting the other boy clean off the floor and pressing him into the wall. Watanuki obliged by wrapping his legs around Doumeki's torso, grinding and thrusting urgently, uncontrollably. He kissed Doumeki then; there was the sound of teeth clicking, and when Watanuki pulled back, there was blood beading on his lower lip. That didn't stop Doumeki from kissing him again, though, and just like that they stumbled up the stairs, tripping over each other, half-blind with lust.

When at last Watanuki succeeded at jamming the keys into the keyhole and wrenching the door open, they fell through into his flat in a heap. Doumeki held out his arms just in time to stop himself from crushing the boy under him, making a choked noise as his hard-on pressed up against Watanuki's abdomen. He rolled over and off the other boy quickly, shaking his head to try and clear it, but Watanuki wasted no time in pulling him to his feet and through the hall, apparently intent on leading him to bed. Doumeki barely protested as he stumbled through the dank corridor, but that didn't mean he was oblivious to the ramshackle appearance of the apartment, if you could even call it that.

"This place is a shithole," said Doumeki, reasonably, and promptly stumbled over several empty aluminium cans lying in the middle of the floor, like discarded gift wrap on Boxing Day.

"Whoa whoa whoa," said Watanuki, windmilling as he attempted to make a sharp turn and nearly fell flat on his ass. He was only saved an undignified tumble by the fact that the fingers of his right hand were interlaced with those of Doumeki's left, and with Doumeki supporting him he righted himself in a few moments. "Don't step on those. Hey, don't step on that!"

"What? Why the hell not?"

Matter-of-factly, Watanuki answered, "I put my weed in there."

Doumeki shot him a disbelieving glance, and then let go of his hand, leaning down to have a look. On closer inspection it turned out that Watanuki had indeed fashioned at least one of the cans into a crude bowl, and it looked as though it had seen heavy use.

"You smoke waaay too much shit."

"Shut up and fuck me already," said Watanuki, raggedly. Doumeki looked up slowly, following with cautious eyes the trail of clothes strewn across the floor and leading to the bed, and discovered that Watanuki was naked, his back against the wall where the headboard of a nicer bed would have been, with legs spread. For a guy who was clearly off his head on ice, he sure moved fast. Doumeki didn't hesitate to join him, shedding his jacket and shirt as he crossed the floor, pausing at the edge of the bed only to step out of his jeans. A glance into his wallet revealed that he only had a single rubber, which he rolled on gingerly, pinching the tip as he did so. Stark naked apart from that, he pulled himself onto the messy sheets, and saw that Watanuki was already waiting with his ass slightly raised off the mattress, knees spread as wide as they could go. It occurred to him that they really were going to do it, with no foreplay required - he was already so hard that it almost hurt. But no foreplay didn't mean no preparation, and so Doumeki paused, each hand resting on a trembling thigh, holding them apart.

"Where's the lube?" he said, in a strained voice.

"Wuh?"

"Lube. The lube!" repeated Doumeki, trying not to sound too crazy. "Where is it, don't you have any?" He glanced to the side, expecting to see a bedside table, but instead discovered that Watanuki had taken a much more economical approach to furnishing his flat in that there _was_ none, and tried not to roll his eyes with frustration.

"I -" Watanuki looked beyond reason; he struggled and writhed, the thigh muscles under Doumeki's hands flexing desperately, and hissed, "Fuck that, just -"

"You - are you kidding me? You don't even want to use- _ngrk_." At this point Doumeki found that he had lost his ability to speak, as Watanuki unashamedly began to grind back against him in languid circles. That was about all Doumeki could handle, and he shoved Watanuki down onto his stomach, springs in the ancient mattress squeaking in protest. If there was no lube, he was just going to make do; it wasn't going to lubricate much at all, but there was only so much excitement a man could take. He spat in his hand, over his fingers, and did the deed; it was perfunctory, stretching a too-tight hole for hardly long enough. Watanuki whimpered, squirming from side to side, and then gasped - a little 'oh' of shock and arousal - as a fingertip tentatively located his prostate, his hips bucking wildly at the stimulation. Doumeki decided he rather liked that noise, and did it again, and again, massaging the gland with care. Watanuki's keening moans sent shivers down his spine. Finally he tugged his fingers out, and drew himself up over Watanuki, spitting in his palm again to slick saliva over the condom he wore, and positioning himself just over the too-small entrance.

"Ready?" he murmured, into the side of Watanuki's neck.

There was no answer. After a few seconds, Doumeki drew back to stare at Watanuki, and found that he had happily passed out.

Fuck. He shook Watanuki, none too gently. There was no response. Doumeki was seized by a brief, very brief, moment of panic, but it quelled itself when Watanuki began to snore obliviously. Good, at least he wasn't dead. With a heavy sigh, he collapsed on top of the unconscious Watanuki, who snorted once, and then slept on peacefully. The temptation to just dress and fuck off home was overpowering, but he knew that he couldn't, in good conscience, leave Watanuki alone when he'd passed out like that - he was familiar enough with the club scene to be able to recognize the signs that someone'd had just a little too much. The last thing he wanted was to wake up the next morning and have Ame told him that Watanuki had ODed and killed himself.

He sighed again, rolled off of Watanuki, and sat on the edge of the bed. He was still hard, and it didn't look like it was going away any time soon. It was shaping up to be a long, boring night.


End file.
